Falling for the Pirate (2 page)

Chapter Two

Nathanial Bowen was accustomed to people stealing from him. The other children in the whorehouse he’d grown up in had constantly fought over whatever toys and coins they could scavenge, and a hierarchy had emerged. Who had the most food? Who hit the hardest?

Eventually, after getting his nose broken twice, Nate had emerged at the top.

But those petty thefts weren’t the worst he had encountered. That had come even earlier, closer to his birth. Theft of property. Theft of honor. And he was close, so close, to getting it all back.

So when he’d seen the lithe figure climbing the crates outside his new warehouse, well, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He shouldn’t have been offended, either. The short stature made it clear he was dealing with a child. Or a young man too weak to hold a job of heavy labor. Most of all, he shouldn’t have been angry. Anger was a form of weakness. But at nearly midnight, having sunk half a bottle of brandy into his gut before throwing the bottle out his porthole, he had found himself furious.

Nate was on his ship, where the porthole of his cabin gave him a clear line of site to the building. The building that was in the process of being robbed.
By a child.

Still.

He was just now getting back what had been taken from him. Wasn’t even finished, in fact, his task half-done. And here, some lad was trying to snatch it out of his grasp, as if it had never really been Nate’s, after all.

Then the boy lost his footing. He held on from the ledge on the roof, feet dangling. Nate’s breath caught. He was too far away, him on his ship and the boy on land. Six minutes away if he ran at full speed. It was too late for him to help, too late…

The boy grasped the roof and hauled himself over. Nate let out the breath he’d been holding.

With a grunt, he pushed to his feet. The whole world tilted sideways, and it took him a full thirty seconds to orient himself. What was making everything lurch beneath him? A disturbance in the water, a disruption on the ship? No, it was the brandy.

Maybe he’d drunk more than half the bottle.

A strange melancholy overtook him. He wished he’d never seen the boy stealing into his warehouse. Then he wouldn’t have to get up while his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. He could wake up in the morning, already relieved of whatever coins or gold was in the upstairs rooms. And what would it matter?

It wouldn’t.

Every time he drank, the liquor made him admit that the money wouldn’t give him what he truly craved.

He really should stop drinking.

On the deck, he found himself checking the ship’s ropes. Old habits. The men on watch saluted him, silhouettes framed by moonlight, and Nate whistled a quick greeting before heading to the fore. He paused, then took two steps backward. A scrawny foot was barely visible behind a coil of rope.

“The quartermaster will take your breakfast away if he finds you abovedecks at this hour.”

The foot slid further into shadow. “He’s always taking it away for something,” came the voice from behind the ropes. “Mightn’t as well not count on it.”

Nate decided he would check with the quartermaster about how many meals could be taken away at most. Then he forced himself to scratch off the reminder. He trusted his quartermaster to provide necessities to the children, to keep them obedient and safe. The boy, Bennett, already looked to Nate too often.

The last thing he needed was to become more involved.

“Get below,” he said gruffly. “
Now.
”

Bennett scrambled out from his hiding place, mumbling, “Yes, Cap’n.”

Nate waited while the nine-year-old climbed down the ladder and shut the hatch. It would be just like Bennett to follow him to land, defying a direct order. Nate frowned. He wasn’t sure he could mold the boy into an obedient seaman. And the boy wouldn’t fare much better in a trade on land, not with the way he constantly talked back and fought his superiors.

The problem was inside Bennett, eating him from within, struggling to break free. Nate understood, because he’d been there once—an angry, rebellious youth.
Grown into an angry, rebellious man.
He shook off the thought.

There was still a thief inside the Hargate Shipping offices.

The offices belonged to Nate now. As did the thief.

Whether or not he brought the ruffian in front of a magistrate, he must put a stop to the robbery. Any number of things could go wrong: important papers misplaced, people hurt during the escape, a fire.

Of course, the men in the main hall were clueless to the invader and drunker than Nate, besides. Some celebration or other that he didn’t partake in but wouldn’t forbid his employees. He didn’t bother to explain himself as he strode past. He often patrolled the shipyard late at night before settling in to sleep on the
Nightingale.
Which meant he was accustomed to moving quietly and swiftly in the dark. Up the stairs, far easier than scaling the sails.

The thief didn’t notice his arrival, and Nate had a chance to examine him. Thin. Limping? Overall, a rather pathetic creature—who had still managed to sneak around five hardened sailors below.

The thief was searching through the file cabinets. That was odd. Did he think valuables or coin would be stored there? Or was this an attempt at financial espionage? The boy could have been sent from any number of competitors. Nate’s sudden acquisition of Hargate Shipping had certainly inspired interest among the smaller companies.

What if Hargate himself had sent the boy?

Nate abandoned that thought almost immediately. The sly investor had huge resources behind him. He could hire someone more skilled at stealth than a street urchin. One who wouldn’t leave telltale smudges of soot all over the floor.

Besides, what would be the point? Hargate knew he had lost. He had gone to ground, taking with him whatever wealth he’d managed to hide. And there was a chance—a good chance—that he was dead. And wouldn’t that make Nate’s life easier?

“What could you be looking for?” he mused aloud, breaking the silence.

The boy gasped and whirled, clutching a handful of papers to his chest as if to hide behind them. Well, he would have to do better than that. Nate didn’t consider himself a cruel man—except when the situation called for it. But the boy
had
been trespassing on his property. He clearly had some nefarious purpose in mind. And Nate wanted to know what it was.

“Who— Who are you?” The voice shook so hard it came out as a whisper.

Interesting. So, if the boy had been sent, his master hadn’t prepared him very well. That much was obvious by his soot-stained clothing and method of entry. A chimney sweep. They’d sent a
chimney
sweep
to steal trade secrets from him. He was insulted more by the choice of thief than the theft itself.

“Unlike you, I am supposed to be here.”

“Please don’t tell anyone I was here,” the boy whispered.

Nate blinked, taken aback by the request. They really had sent a lamb to the slaughter with this one. “Why would I not? It’s obvious you’re here to steal something. I’m sure the constable will have something to say about that.”

The boy made a small sound, like a squeak. “No, sir.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’m not trying to steal anything that— I’m not stealing anything that isn’t mine. I swear it.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “That’s a convenient distinction. Something that isn’t yours. Are you telling me you lost something in that cabinet? Left a chimney brush there, have you?”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide and reflective. Up close, the boy still appeared thin and weak, but was taller than Nate had first imagined. Too tall to be a regular climbing boy. But he could have been apprenticed as one as a child. And these chimneys in the warehouse were designed to heat larger rooms, with channels large enough for an older boy such as this. Had he once been employed here? Was that how he’d hatched this idea to steal?

Nate softened his voice. “Were you looking for coin? Or for valuables? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but not much is kept on hand in a shipping firm. Most of the money passes through with pen and paper, like it’s not really there. You won’t be finding a shilling in those files.”

“I don’t want your money,” the boy said, and somehow, Nate knew he meant it. The fervor in his voice was strange, but undeniable.

“If you don’t want my money, then you must be after something else.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” the boy cried. “Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I only wish to— I wish to—”

“Who sent you?”

The boy’s eyes darted to the door. He must have known he’d never slip by Nate, who stood only two feet away. But just to be sure, Nate added, “Do not think about running. Whether I call the constable or not depends on you telling me the truth, right now. That’s your best chance of getting out of this without shackles, understand?”

Those eyes widened. What color were they? Something pale and dark at the same time. It confounded him, briefly, trying to figure out the color, then wondering why he should care. They were grey, he decided. And translucent enough that he could see the boy’s fear and indecision.

He was getting soft. Bennett was making him soft.

Nate let out a soft curse. “Let’s try this again. It’s midnight. You are in offices that you don’t belong in. Now, who sent you?”

“No one, I swear it.”

This was getting him nowhere. The boy was lying. “What’s your name?”

“Ju-Julian,” the boy mumbled.

“All right, Julian. You came up with the idea to rob the office all by yourself, did you?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“And did you give a thought to what would happen if you were caught?”

“Yes.” The voice had dropped to a whisper again. Honest, at least.
When the boy whispered, he told the truth.

Nate had definitely drunk the full bottle before throwing it out the porthole. It was catching up to him now, making him sway slightly. He hoped the boy didn’t notice. It wouldn’t project the level of intimidation and severity Nate hoped to achieve.

“Then why the hell did you climb up all those crates, almost breaking your neck? And climb down a chimney that could have been lit, into a room that might have been filled with violent sailors? Can you explain that to me, Julian?”

“Because…I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispered.

And Nate knew that was the truth. Not only because the boy had whispered it, and because he’d looked down in shame as he spoke, but because Nate himself felt the desperation hit him in the center of his gut, an unwelcome reflection of times past.

Nate knew what it was like to be tired and desperate and
hungry
. So hungry.

He must
really
be getting soft even to consider his next thought. Boys were carefully screened before entering the Nightingale’s program. This one was too old anyway; the program worked best when they were younger, more malleable. More teachable. Less like Bennett.

Besides, there was a waiting list at the orphanage and the workhouse of boys who would gladly fill a spot—boys who had never stolen from him. They’d certainly never sneaked into his office and begged with disconcerting urgency for Nate to pretend he’d never seen them, pleaded with an earnestness that made his chest feel tight.

“There’s a place,” he said haltingly, unsure of whether he’d even finish the sentence. “A kind of training school…where young boys, such as yourself, have a chance to work aboard a functioning ship, to learn its operations and become skilled at ropework.”

The boy stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Well, the idea
was
fairly unique. Startlingly unique and, Nate sometimes thought, brilliant. He especially had that thought when he’d drunk an entire bottle of spirits. However, he suspected the boy’s bewilderment was not due to being impressed.

“There are classes,” he said. “In navigation. In accounting. I’m not explaining this well because I’m mildly…well, partially, soused. But you understand the general idea—”

The boy bolted. Nate had been expecting that, but his reflexes were slow to kick in. Especially because he hadn’t anticipated the direction the boy would go. Not toward the door—where Nate would have been waiting. Not the window, either, where a twenty foot drop would have been fatal. Instead, the boy ran to the chimney.

He was going
up
the chimney.

Hell
. Jolted into action—by surprise more than anything—Nate dove to the chimney and reached up blindly. He grasped an ankle and heard a cry of pain. In that split second, with his brain too slow to counteract the impulse, he loosened his hold. Another foot swung and kicked his wrist, reverberating pain he would no doubt feel tomorrow.

“Damnation.”

He ducked his head to look up, and saw only blackness. Soot fell into his eyes, and he swore again.

Nate was somewhat impressed. It had been a long time since anyone had gotten the advantage with him, even if he was drunk and half asleep.

At the window, he looked out. First, he heard nothing. And strangely, relief coursed through him. The boy had gotten away. He hadn’t stolen anything, and he’d gotten away, so it was really the best outcome. Although it wouldn’t fix whatever desperation had driven the boy to break in.

Then a huge crash came from the back of the building.
The crates
. The crates the boy had probably used to climb down, were tumbling over like a wooden avalanche.
Christ.

Nate flew down the back stairs, ignoring the shouts of confusion from the men who weren’t passed out.

In the wreckage of splintered wood, he searched mindlessly, helplessly, for the broken body underneath. An image flashed through his mind—pale grey eyes. Frightened eyes. Pleading eyes.
Jesus.
He tossed aside a crate that had managed to land whole, dreading what he might find beneath.

Nothing but pieces of wood scattered over the brick pavers. No bones. No bodies.

Then he saw the boy a few yards away, running—or trying to. The limp was worse now. He’d been injured in the fall. How badly? There was no way to know.